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all this service Have I done since I went.

PROSPERO. [Aside to ARIEL] My tricksy spirit!

ALONSO. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?

BOATSWAIN. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And-how, we know not-all clapp’d under hatches; Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And moe diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awak’d; straightway at liberty; Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master Cap’ring to eye her. On a trice, so please you, Even in a dream, were we divided from them, And were brought moping hither.

ARIEL. [Aside to PROSPERO] Was’t well done?

PROSPERO. [Aside to ARIEL] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.

ALONSO. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of. Some oracle

Must rectify our knowledge.

PROSPERO. Sir, my liege,

Do not infest your mind with beating on The strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisure, Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [Aside to ARIEL] Come hither, spirit;

Set Caliban and his companions free;

Untie the spell. [Exit ARIEL] How fares my gracious sir?

There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not.

 

Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel

STEPHANO. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself; for all is but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!

TRINCULO. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight.

CALIBAN. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!

How fine my master is! I am afraid

He will chastise me.

SEBASTIAN. Ha, ha!

What things are these, my lord Antonio?

Will money buy’em?

ANTONIO. Very like; one of them

Is a plain fish, and no doubt marketable.

PROSPERO. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This misshapen knave-His mother was a witch, and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command without her power.

These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil-For he’s a bastard one-had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

CALIBAN. I shall be pinch’d to death.

ALONSO. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

SEBASTIAN. He is drunk now; where had he wine?

ALONSO. And Trinculo is reeling ripe; where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ‘em?

How cam’st thou in this pickle?

TRINCULO. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones. I shall not fear fly-blowing.

SEBASTIAN. Why, how now, Stephano!

STEPHANO. O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

PROSPERO. You’d be king o’ the isle, sirrah?

STEPHANO. I should have been a sore one, then.

ALONSO. [Pointing to CALIBAN] This is as strange a thing as e’er I look’d on.

PROSPERO. He is as disproportioned in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CALIBAN. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool!

PROSPERO. Go to; away!

ALONSO. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

SEBASTIAN. Or stole it, rather.

Exeunt CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO

PROSPERO. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away-the story of my life,

And the particular accidents gone by

Since I came to this isle. And in the morn I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial

Of these our dear-belov’d solemnized, And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.

ALONSO. I long

To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.

PROSPERO. I’ll deliver all;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious that shall catch Your royal fleet far off. [Aside to ARIEL] My Ariel, chick,

That is thy charge. Then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well!-Please you, draw near.

Exeunt EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE Spoken by PROSPERO

Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, Which is most faint. Now ‘tis true, I must be here confin’d by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands.

Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair

Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.

 

THE END

 

<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS

PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE

WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE

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1608

 

THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS

 

by William Shakespeare

 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

 

TIMON of Athens

 

LUCIUS

LUCULLUS

SEMPRONIUS

flattering lords

 

VENTIDIUS, one of Timon’s false friends ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain

APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher

FLAVIUS, steward to Timon

 

FLAMINIUS

LUCILIUS

SERVILIUS

Timon’s servants

 

CAPHIS

PHILOTUS

TITUS

HORTENSIUS

servants to Timon’s creditors

 

POET

PAINTER

JEWELLER

MERCHANT

MERCER

AN OLD ATHENIAN

THREE STRANGERS

A PAGE

A FOOL

 

PHRYNIA

TIMANDRA

mistresses to Alcibiades

 

CUPID

AMAZONS

in the Masque

 

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, and Attendants

 

<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS

PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE

WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE

DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS

PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED

COMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY

SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>

 

SCENE:

Athens and the neighbouring woods

 

ACT I. SCENE I.

Athens. TIMON’S house

 

Enter POET, PAINTER, JEWELLER, MERCHANT, and MERCER, at several doors POET. Good day, sir.

PAINTER. I am glad y’are well.

POET. I have not seen you long; how goes the world?

PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows.

POET. Ay, that’s well known.

But what particular rarity? What strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power Hath conjur’d to attend! I know the merchant.

PAINTER. I know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller.

MERCHANT. O, ‘tis a worthy lord!

JEWELLER. Nay, that’s most fix’d.

MERCHANT. A most incomparable man; breath’d, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness.

He passes.

JEWELLER. I have a jewel here—

MERCHANT. O, pray let’s see’t. For the Lord Timon, sir?

JEWELLER. If he will touch the estimate. But for that-POET. When we for recompense have prais’d the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.

MERCHANT. [Looking at the jewel] ‘Tis a good form.

JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye.

PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord.

POET. A thing slipp’d idly from me.

Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes

From whence ‘tis nourish’d. The fire i’ th’ flint Shows not till it be struck: our gentle flame Provokes itself, and like the current flies Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.

Let’s see your piece.

PAINTER. ‘Tis a good piece.

POET. So ‘tis; this comes off well and excellent.

PAINTER. Indifferent.

POET. Admirable. How this grace

Speaks his own standing! What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this lip! To th’ dumbness of the gesture One might interpret.

PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life.

Here is a touch; is’t good?

POET. I will say of it

It tutors nature. Artificial strife

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

 

Enter certain SENATORS, and pass over PAINTER. How this lord is followed!

POET. The senators of Athens-happy man!

PAINTER. Look, moe!

POET. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have in this rough work shap’d out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment. My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of tax. No levell’d malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.

PAINTER. How shall I understand you?

POET. I will unbolt to you.

You see how all conditions, how all minds-As well of glib and slipp’ry creatures as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon. His large fortune, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Subdues and properties to his love and tendance All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac’d flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself; even he drops down The knee before him, and returns in peace Most rich in Timon’s nod.

PAINTER. I saw them speak together.

POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feign’d Fortune to be thron’d. The base o’ th’ mount Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind of natures That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states. Amongst them all Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her; Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals.

PAINTER. ‘Tis conceiv’d to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckon’d from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well express’d In our condition.

POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on.

All those which were his fellows but of late-Some better than his value-on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air.

PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these?

POET. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which labour’d after him to the mountain’s top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot.

PAINTER. ‘Tis common.

A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord

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